She gave no reply, only twisted her hands in her skirts, certain of his condemnation. He sounded so judgmental, as if it were a cardinal sin to have read it—yet not his for owning it, and bringing it into his ancestral home. He turned back to his work.
She, drawn despite herself, drifted nearer to the open trunk. A scatter of loose sheets lay across the top—copperplate prints, each line dark with age. Her hand wavered as she lifted one.
She swallowed hard. It was no simple study of the human form, no allegory as she had seen in books of mythology. These were men and women entwined—coupling, their bodies pressed together in every posture imaginable. One woman sat astride a man’s lap, her head thrown back in ecstasy. In another, a man took his partner from behind, her hands braced against the bed as her body arched to meet him. And then—God forgive her eyes—there was a plate of a man and woman twined head to foot, mouths upon one another’s nakedness, their bodies knotted in unabashed delight. She had known the shock of a man’s lips upon her own flesh, but never dreamed such pleasure might be given as well as taken in the same breath.
In every engraving the faces were alive with joy—raptures so vividly drawn she could almost hear their cries. With each image, a deeper bloom spread across her cheeks. She had thought herself ruined by his touch alone, but here the women reveled, shameless, exultant. Not one looked bowed with duty;they writhed as though pleasure itself consumed them. And she—she had writhed just so, not long ago.
“Will you stop?” William snapped, sudden and sharp. She whirled, the print falling from her hands. He looked like thunder. “These works are not meant for innocent eyes.”
Her pulse hammered. She lifted her chin though her face flushed scarlet. “How innocent do you think I am, after all we have done?”
He barked a bitter laugh. “Done? We have done nothing.”
“Not because I did not ask you,” she said, breathless. “Not because I did not beg you to. That is why you left—as if burned. Because I disgusted you.”
For an instant the silence roared. Then he closed the distance in a stride, his mouth crushing hers, hard and searing. She didn’t even manage a gasp before he pressed her back against the table, her gown bunched in his fists, papers scattering to the floor.
“Disgust?” His voice was ragged, his breath hot at her ear. “Christ, Jane—”
Before she could answer, he was on his knees before her, pushing her thighs apart with insatiable hunger. She barely had time to gather her wits before he fell on her, devouring her sleek core, drawing a startled cry from her throat. She gripped the edge of the table, her head falling back as a bolt of heat shot through her.
His fingers joined then, pressing deep, curling inside her, in rhythm with his wicked tongue as it circled her tender bud in ceaseless motion. She sobbed aloud, clutching his shoulders, her body grinding against him. It was too much—and yet not enough. Not after the engravings. Not after seeing those women impaled, crying out as though they would die of delight.
“William—please—” her voice was broken, pleading. “I need—something more—to be filled—”
He lifted his head just long enough to look at her, his eyes wild. A grin flickered—dark, feral. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he growled. And then, without wasting any more time, he was on her again, more ravenous, as if he meant to drink her dry.
The release swept through her, hard and blinding, but still he did not relent. He wrung every tremor from her, lapping at her throbbing core as though nothing more delicious had ever existed. She clung to him, crying his name as pleasure crashed over her, again and again. At last, she lay slack and boneless, shivering through the final aftershocks.
He rose then, his lips glistening, his chest heaving, and caught her face between his hands. His kiss was hard, desperate, his tongue thrusting into her mouth to make her taste her own ruin. When he broke away, his words came hoarse, almost savage.
“How much you disgust me—so much I cannot keep myself from your honey. Because nothing sweeter has ever touched my tongue.”
Her blush spread to the very roots of her hair, her breath catching.
His tone softened, “I left, my sweet, not from disgust. To preserve you. To keep your honor intact. That is the only reason I fled, and why I stayed away.”
She looked at him in silence, but within her the resolve only hardened. She knew she could not meekly resign herself to the life of a governess, never having tasted what the poets promised. She needed to claim at least this—one bright, forbidden draught of rapture—before the years closed over her.
“Do not speak to me of honor,” Jane whispered, her voice fierce. “I am bound to service. I will never marry. What does it matter if I am virginal still—so long as no one knows?” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “I would rather live one hour of passion than go to my grave never having known it.”
Her words struck him like a blow. He stared down at her—skirts rumpled, thighs parted, the tender flesh between them swollen and glistening with the evidence of her desire. She held his gaze with undeniable courage.
“Please,” she begged. “William. I want this.”
For a heartbeat, he wavered—every instinct screaming to protect her, to preserve her. But the sight of her undone, the taste of her still on his lips, the raw plea—God help him, he could not resist any longer.
With a rough groan, he seized her mouth, kissing her as though he would devour her whole. His fingers fumbled at his breeches, freeing himself, hard and aching with need. She felt the weight of him then, hot against her thigh, and a shiver coursed through her. He was long, thick—impossibly so. More than she had ever imagined, even after the vivid descriptions in that forbidden book.
In her mind, unbidden, came the image of the servant boy in Fanny Hill, the youth whose great size had so daunted and enthralled. And now here she was, about to yield her innocence to the man before her, who seemed similarly endowed.
He saw unease flicker across her face. His jaw tightened. “I can stop,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me now, and I will.”
“No.” She was trembling, but sure. “I need to feel you inside me.”
A snarl broke from him. He bunched her skirts higher, guiding himself to her. The blunt head pushed against her slick opening, and she gasped at once at the stretch—her body resisting. Fanny had described the very same ache, the same shock of being opened. She had blushed over those lines, half in disbelief, and now she lived them.
He eased forward, breaching her. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she struggled to breathe through the pain. He had barely worked the tip into her, and already the ache was sharp—almost unbearable. Had he not readied her with his mouth, she thought wildly, he might never have gotten even that far.
